Wasilla, Alaska. Ice cracks beneath the weight of dozens of pickups, sending a warning: Drive slowly on frozen Knik Lake. It's a frostbite kind of morning.

The howls of Alaskan huskies from more than a dozen teams slice the February air. Male and female mushers between the ages of 14 and 17 wearing down parkas with thick fur ruffs and insulated gloves unload their teams. Hearty chunks of fish and sausage are tossed on the ice-encrusted ground as a pre-race snack.

The racing mushers check their sleds to make sure they haven't forgotten anything: ax, snowshoes with bindings, headlamp and an alternate battery-powered light, cold-weather sleeping bag, lighter or matches to start a fire. Rules also require dog food, dog food cooker, and eight dog booties for each dog.

A race official checks everything off. "Good luck," he says, knowing these teens will rely more on their countless hours of training than on luck.

Saturday, February 28th, marks the official start of the 32st Jr. Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race. This two-day event that began in 1977 to enable mushers between the ages of 14 and 17, male and female, to compete in a two-day version of "The Last Great Race on Earth." The junior route is approximately 150 miles, which is much shorter than the adult 1,049-mile route from Anchorage to Nome.

Both races honor the 1925 "serum run" when twenty fearless mushers and their teams of hard- driving huskies rallied to transport life-saving medicine from Nenana to Nome, Alaska. At risk were countless children in Nome who had been exposed to the highly infectious disease diphtheria. During these years, sled-dog teams were called upon to transport mail, supplies, and people. Gold miners traveled to remote gold fields, and the precious ore was carted out by dogsled. Later, airplanes took over the mail routes and the gold rush slowed down. The adult race was organized in 1973 by mushing enthusiasts to help keep this part of their culture alive. Dog mushing now claims the title "Official State Sport" of Alaska.

Hitting The Trail

Padded harnesses are slipped over each dog. The main lines, called "ganglines," run through the center of the teams. Race rules require a minimum of 7 dogs per team and a maximum of 10 dogs. The mushers kiss their dogs and give them a friendly scratch. "Ready to go, fella?" Booties are slipped over paws to protect the dogs' toe pads from snow and ice.

The bone-chilling cold doesn't keep family, friends, and reporters from hanging around the starting chute. Musher's names are announced over loudspeakers as teams are released at two- minute intervals. "Veteran Patrick Mackey from Kasilof!" the announcer says.

Spectators cheer as the dogs take off and the numbered racing bibs fade into the snowy white wilderness. Balanced on sled runners hour and after hour, each musher grips the handlebars in the face of wind-driven snow. Verbal commands ring out. "Gee!" and "Haw!" The terms translate into right and left turns.

In deep snow, dog teams look like they're "swimming" down the trail. On hard, well-packed sections of trail, a musher works to keep his team down to 10 to 12 mph. Pacing is everything. Still, they know there's no such thing as a foolproof race plan. All strategies must be as flexible as the constantly changing conditions. "Don't like the weather?" an old saying goes. "Just wait five minutes."

On The Run

Hours slip by. Snow falls. Visibility is near zero. It's time to "snack" the dogs — bite-size chunks of raw meat or "ends and pieces" of bacon. Patrick Mackey replaces tattered booties with new ones from his sled.

Mushers grab snacks for themselves. Trail mix and homemade "honey balls" are favorites — made with crunchy peanut butter, honey, chocolate chips, oatmeal, and Carnation Instant Breakfast mixed and rolled into balls, then sprinkled with coconut.

The straight-aways on Yentna River seem to go on forever. Cold numbs everything except the dogs who are bred for the Alaskan weather. The first team arrives at the halfway point, Yentna Station Roadhouse, approximately 75 miles from the race start. There isn't any running water or electricity. Only generator-powered lights.

A veterinarian, ham-radio operator, race official, and journalist were flown to the roadhouse earlier in a bush plane. The race official enters the mushers' times, which begins the mandatory 10-hour layover. The mushers spread straw on the ground for their dogs.

It takes a heap of snow to yield enough water to fill the dog-food cooker. Heating fuel carried in the sleds keeps the blue flame high. Frozen food thaws quickly when dropped into hot water. The dog's meal is full of fat and protein — beef, lamb, turkey, chicken or liver — sometimes, beaver, moose, caribou or seal meat.

Any damaged equipment is repaired that night, all beneath the beam of headlamps. Mushers toss their sleeping bags on straw beside their teams. Dreams are lost to a rehashing of the day's events. Then thoughts turn to the finish line 75 miles away. All too soon the alarm buzzes the first musher's wake up: 4 a.m. The team is fed, watered, its lines checked. The sled repacked. The words, "Let's go!" crack the frozen morning air.

Winner's Circle

A banquet follows the race where scholarships, trophies, and special awards are handed out: Sportsmanship, Rookie of the Year, Blue Harness Award (best lead dog), Humanitarian Award (best- cared-for team, chosen by the head veterinarian), Red Lantern Award (last musher to cross the finish line).

No matter where the mushers finish in the Jr. Iditarod, all competitors have achieved a notable feat and helped "make history" by keeping the tradition of mushing alive. They have all gone the distance and established themselves and their teams in the annals of Iditarod lore.